incoherent

Guilt for not having free-written lately is this – is a walk never taken in the park before they cut down the park, leveled it out for new pavement communities, family housing, for family houses. Tooth sore, panic attack nights, too much red ale, not enough sleep, the sunrise is slow, the apartment smells like dying christmas tree, feels cold, 60 degrees yesterday, oh global warming hooplah, or churning out ideas, nothing makes sense, no kind of outpour could inhance the flow when I am self correcting every possible thought and feeling awkwardly misplaced in my own universe, something like “do you notice what’s wrong this picture?” children’s game and they never know.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

I flew a few days ago, from Tacoma Narrows to Hillsboro. To the East we had mountains, the Cascades. Rainier first then others. Mt. Jefferson and Mt. Adams were new sights to me. The West was clouds. Shorelines of clouds buffeting the low hills, looking out for traffic, filming a fake documentary, making a spectacle of the unseen world above the low clouds, the fallen clouds, moisture and dew and water on the wing, the prop spins clear of traffic, of bogeys out there coming in from the blue, I wondered what it must have been to fight in planes with guns, to take to the air in dogfights, how ridiculous that now sounds, how awful air drone warfare might be for the sky, the atmosphere, living on after us, without us, fighting and shooting off all life… there is a sci fi story, like the poem a classmate wrote about a dystopian future, I think some of us are stuck in what we know and never try to outgrow our old selves, even if these old selves are dragging dead weight, there is a little boy in me I don’t want dead! I want his curiosity to fly my plane to write my stories, to feel the electricity of the light bulb moments of learning new things. I want to fall out of the sky every morning with specific landing instructions for the hillsboro airport, imagine the mountains to the left and the clouds to the right and the sun burned it off on the return. This is not cathartic writing. I am still blocking myself from fully flying. There is a level of anxiety, of self doubt, of waiting for the right moment, of wasted time waiting, of wasted guilt wracked time in general, of the realization, of my two month commitment to electronic music, of my shit for music production talent, of my writing on notecards and presenting nothing to nobody, of my own lack of excitement for anything happening around the sphere of my head in my life, of the judgement cast by others, then my body in space, of space itself, and my body within, internal spaces yet unexplored, places physical, taxing of the consciousness.

I’ve still said nothing. Something about airplanes and writing ghosts.

Really the hillside is still orange from the slow sunrise. No great epiphanies this morning. I am weighed down heavily by the lack of coherence.

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